My Summer Reading 2025

At the end of my 2nd year of university, I donated around 20 books. Some I'd read for pleasure, others for my course, to discuss for an hour with peers and never think about again. At the end of my first year this number was closer to 50 (I'd been mistakenly sent the wrong reading list) and I hadn't even opened most of them. Thankfully, I'd discovered the wonderful worldofbooks.com so the strain on my finances was much kinder than if I'd bought them firsthand.

Both years I was left with a significant amount of leftover books. I separated these into two categories: Read/Unread. A stable binary, that should have helped me get rid of many more than I already had. But therein lies the problem. There were some from the 'read' list I was too attached to, such as John Steinbeck's The Grapes of Wrath and Max Porter's Lanny. Both of these had been used, abused, annotated and dog-eared beyond recognition. They had seen better days and by all means were harder to read due to layers upon layers of annotations.

But I just couldn't part with them. Both books had been such inspirations to me and my writing. Steinbeck's shameless style and prose held me in awe as I read the lofty novel. It was unlike anything I'd read before, even if it was only for class (I ended up writing my end of year essay about it and Jesmyn Ward's Salvage the Bones). During the class dedicated to it, I was one of only 3 students who showed up, and 2 hadn't even read it. The two hours ended up more as a discussion between me and the teacher. I'm led to believe it's not popular among students.

I can't imagine why. Honestly.

And Lanny. Where to begin with Lanny?

I first encountered Lanny in a small bookshop in St Ives. I was around 16, maybe younger, and still didn't even have a proper bank account. I had a GoHenry allowance debit card where I would get some money for chores and other things. it was during COVID and we were hiding from the heat in the shade of the bookshop after being turned away from most other places. Adhering to the one-way system, and maximum of about 6 people in the shop at a time, I only saw the book's spine. Really, I didn't intend to buy anything. I didn't even know how much money I had on the card.

But then on a whim, and perhaps to look busy, I snatched the book from the shelf. I opened it, and did a double-take. The words literally flowed off the page, swirling around in vague stream-like lines of snatched dialogue and monologue. I flicked back to the beginning.

'Dead Papa Toothwort' read the first heading, and I knew I had to get it. I shuffled to the checkout when it was my turn. My older sister walked a prescribed social distance behind me. Sweat tickled my nose and chin under the mask as I handed over the book and tapped my card, praying.

It declined. I tried again. No change.

My worst social nightmare, the walk of shame back to the shelf, breaking the tense queue of mask-clad customers, looking down at me over the tops of books they pretended to read. All that lay in view, and I turned to face it. And then my older sister sighed and stepped forward, tapping her card on the reader over my shoulder.

We pattered out the shop and rejoined out parents in the street. The little book was only about a hundred pages, with a pretty white cover and what looked like wood-block prints of leaves. I held it in my sweating hands until we got to the beach, and from then on paused all forms of contact.

I read it all in one sitting, squinting at the bright sunlight reflected on the pages. I think I only paused for some fish and chips, unwilling to get any grease on my new book (how my views have changed on book care!)

After that, I re-read it the next day. To this day, I've probably read that book about eight or nine times, and each time in one uninterrupted sitting, with the exception of my A-level coursework.

To cut this already too long story short, I ended up unearthing it from a deep bookshelf to analyse its narrative structure. After 2 years of being forgotten, being able to see it with more educated eyes as more than a poetic story about a child abducted by the spirit of nature itself, did bring tears to my eyes. Not only because I could understand more of the nuances of the story's characters, but because it gave me hope. I didn't know I wanted to be a writer at 16. I don't even think I knew it at 18. Writing was something that sort of just happened, and I kept to myself.

More or less.

But Lanny wasn't a book to me. It was more than poetry. It was pure freedom, a whole village and more, condensed into a dreamy experience. Max Porter, I'd liberally say, was my first encounter with literary genius.

So of course, I'll never get rid of that book!

I shifted it uneasily into the 'Unread' pile, which I'd by then renamed to 'Keep'. As I went along, more and more books followed suit. Waterland, Sexing the Cherry, The Picture of Dorian Gray, The Lonely Londoners, The Secret History. The list goes on.

The 'Keep' pile was getting too big for its britches, I thought, spying out some titles I hadn't even thought about since they arrived in early September. Behind the Scenes at the Museum. Sounds interesting enough. The Color Purple. I'd heard of it, sure.

Oh, no.

My shame was unearthed. Stephen King's It and The Shining. Oops.

(Donated: Misery and Carrie.)

Victims of a Waterstones gift card about to expire. It'd been years and I couldn't bring myself to get rid of them. Behind those titles, at least a dozen more. Darn it. I incorrectly assumed that my minimal contact degree would give me plenty of time to read them, at some point in the year. Now I faced off with them, weighing the costs of donating them or reselling.

I couldn't do it.

I'd read them in the summer.

Then summer came.

(Side note: as I was writing this, my sister reminded me I was meant to borrow a book from her to read this summer. My shame follows me.)

That brings us to today...

After a loosely selective process of elimination, I narrowed down my reading list to 26 books of varying lengths. I aim to read all (or most) of them by the end of September, when I'll have to buy more for my third year of university. To motivate me, I started using my goodreads account more socially and added more of my reader friends on there. But I did that last year, too, and look where we ended up.

So this year I'm holding myself more accountable. I'm planning on reviewing all the books I read in blogposts on this blog, giving a small analysis and particularly talking about how the books inspire me as a writer. Reading as a writer is something I can't seem to escape. It's been a long time since I've read a book, poem, or watched a movie and just passively enjoyed it without trying to figure out what exactly the writers do to execute their intent. It does mean my reading speed has more than halved in the past few years, but with purpose!

As of today, the list is as follows (in no particular order):

• Fight Club (re-read)
• Of Mice and Men (re-read)
• Much Ado About Nothing
• Lolita
• The Talented Mr Ripley
• Carmilla
• The Color Purple (re-read)
• East of Eden
• The Shining
• IT
• The Dinner Guest
• The Testament
• The Secret History (re-read)
• Behind the Scenes at the Museum
• The Boys from Brazil
• We Solve Murders
• The End is Always Near
• The Night Ship
• mad honey
• The Marriage Portrait
• The Flame (poetry)
• The Little Prince
• tales from outer suburbia (short stories)
• The Book of Bill
• Rebecca
• Conclave

Who's to say if I'll get through most of these? At least, i think, keeping a record like this will help motivate me not just to read to get the list out of the way, but to read consciously and critically. I hope this will reflect in the consequent (not spoiler-free!) posts.